


The Greatest Gift

by midnightprelude



Series: Gift Fics, Assorted Prompts, and Drabbles [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Circle of Magi, M/M, Prostitution mention, Satinalia (Dragon Age), Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28292208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightprelude/pseuds/midnightprelude
Summary: Anders remembers one Satinalia after another.
Relationships: Anders/Karl Thekla, Anders/Male Hawke
Series: Gift Fics, Assorted Prompts, and Drabbles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606537
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	The Greatest Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SarcoLaniar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarcoLaniar/gifts).



> Written for Laniardraws for the 2020 DA Secret Santa!  
> AND I AM SO SORRY I DIDN'T REALIZE YOUR AO3 WAS SARCOLANIAR OR I WOULD'VE GIFTED THIS TO YOU MONTHS AGO. XD

The first Satinalia Anders could remember, snow had blanketed his parents’ small farmhouse. A merry fire blazed in the hearth and he sat with his younger brother and sister, swathed in a warm woolen blanket to keep out the chill. His mother had spent all day baking: loaves of bread, pies with chicken and gravy, and finally - to the children’s delight - batch after batch of cookies. As the eldest, he was always the first to lick the spoon and the last to get a cookie of his own, helping his mother mix the dough with his tiny fingers when her own grew too tired. 

When they finished, the kitchen was blanketed in flour and sugar and their tummies ached from overindulgence. Anders’ mother bundled the three of them up tightly and they made their way down the snowy lane towards the local chantry to offer the majority of his mother’s efforts to the sisters and the people they cared for: the infirm, the foundlings, the orphan, the elderly, and the little Templar recruits with their shiny shields and boundless energy.

Alen said he was going to join the Templars as soon as he could hold a sword and he nearly wanted to join him. A pointy weapon of his own, stationed in a big city, not digging up potatoes and milking cows like his parents. Protecting the innocent and keeping mages from hurting people. Like knights and Wardens and chevaliers from the stories Papa and Mama would tell. 

Alen eventually joined the Templars; on his twelfth nameday he shipped off to train in Denerim. Anders had fought with his mother to go with him, but she said his duty was to stay and help at the farm. Father had hurt his back the fall before and he needed help planting crops.

He’d gotten angry with her and set the curtains ablaze.

Mama had cried when his powers manifested. Had kissed his cheeks and told him to be brave when the Templars came the following day. He fought and fought, but the armored hands were too strong. He had a duty to help Papa on the farm, he pleaded, as gauntlets pressed into his shoulder. 

Mama had cried, and so had Pippa and Ben, but Papa had gone to the market in Lothering the day before and he never got to say goodbye.

Eventually Anders slumped in the men’s arms and fell asleep for the long ride north.

The first Satinalia at Kinloch he spent in the healer’s ward, after nearly drowning when his arms and legs grew too cold to continue swimming across the frost waters of Lake Calenhad. The little pair of toy ducks he’d managed to carve for Pippa and Ben had sunk to the bottom of the lake during his failed escape.

The second Satinalia at Kinloch, an older boy with the slightest hint of scruff on his cheeks approached him with a pair of knitted socks. Karl had apparently been gathering up scraps of old robes and winding their thread into spools of yarn with magic and handing out the carefully made gifts to other apprentices.

Anders assumed the boy had pitied him for not having any friends, but accepted the gift with some of the first words he’d spoken since arriving at the Circle. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. Anders ducked his head and hurried off to his bunk to slip them on his feet before the boy could take them back.

He didn’t spend the third Satinalia at Kinloch. He’d finally managed to run off to Denerim and managed to barter room and board at a place called The Pearl for some minor mending. One of the girls there told him to come back when he was a bit older and he might fetch a pretty coin for his looks.

The Templars caught him in the market the next morning, trading the buttons on his robes for some sweets.

The eighth Satinalia, Anders had recently passed his Harrowing and Enchanter Thekla had called him into his office to celebrate. Karl held up a little sprig of elfroot and called it mistletoe and Anders happily pretended with him, the fire in his office nearly as warm and welcoming as the feel of the Enchanter’s skin against his own.

“I love you,” Karl had murmured into the shell of his ear, half-naked and still panting from exertion, Anders splayed across his desk like the parchment that usually covered its surface. He couldn’t say the words back, but he felt warmed to his core and couldn’t stop smiling for a week.

“Come with me,” he whispered, on his tenth Satinalia in the Circle, Karl’s eyes heavy-lidded from lovemaking as Anders gazed at him fondly. “We can find our phylacteries and destroy them. I’ll make tinctures and tonics and you can weave robes and delve into the arcane. We can build a little cottage like the one you grew up in-“

Karl kissed him to quiet him. He didn’t like to talk about the world outside. His lips were chapped as Anders scrubbed his fingers across the full chestnut beard that covered Karl’s cheeks. He didn’t mind Karl’s predilections, so long as he was kissing him, even if they rankled when they were parted.

“I love you, Anders,” Karl hummed, putting his robes back to rights. “We can be happy here, so long as we’re careful.”

Anders wanted to argue, felt the dissonance in his bones, but he tightened his jaw and focused his efforts on getting Karl to divest himself of his robes again, to hold him for a little while longer.

Karl was transferred to Kirkwall on the twelfth Satinalia. When the Templars dragged Anders out of The Pearl, he’d nearly gotten enough coin to pay for passage to the Marches.

The next four passed in a blur. The final two Satinalias at Kinloch, Anders was in solitary, his only companions Mr. Wiggums, the roaches, and memories that stung worse than the icicles that dripped into his golden hair.

On his thirtieth nameday, Anders met the Warden and was finally free from the Circle. Several Satinalias passed in the Deep Roads, Ser Pounce-a-lot curled up around his feathered pauldrons as they fought through darkspawn and demons.

His first Satinalia in Kirkwall, Anders was too busy at his clinic to pay attention to the holiday. A half-elven child he’d healed the week before stopped in to bring him a loaf of bread. It almost tasted like the ones his mother made. He had a slice and gave the rest away to his patients.

After that first year, Hawke never let any of them forget Satinalia. He would have Varric organize a gift exchange. For some reason, he always seemed to draw Fenris’ name. He usually swapped with Isabela, who didn’t mind finding something for the elven warrior. They all stayed up far too late, drinking too much mulled wine (though Justice put a stop after two glasses). Hawke kissed him under  _ actual _ mistletoe once. Anders replayed that moment again and again, sleeping on his cot in the clinic. The brush of his beard was so familiar, but softer than Karl’s had been. His fingers were more calloused, but still careful and gentle. His lips weren’t nearly so chapped. 

Anders knew better than to love him, but he did anyway. Hawke called to him like a rune, mana humming between the leylines that ran between them. Drawing him like a fish on a line, like a horse on a lead.

For years he ached for a repeat of that touch, the half-drunk joy in Hawke’s eyes as their lips met and parted far too soon.

And then he had it, again and again, and more besides. Unhurried, those touches, even though every bone in Anders’ body spurred him to race through them. The Templars would catch them; they always did.

Words of love sprang to his lips, easily this time, regrets from never telling Karl how he felt before it was too late, not wishing for a repeat. He knew he was catapulting, head over heels into the abyss, but damn them all, Hawke would know the depth of Anders’ desire.

And he did. And he did. And he did. Forgiveness where there should’ve been justice. Love where there should’ve been pain.

They left Kirkwall together, the two of them, Anders in a daze and Hawke holding onto him like he’d blow away in the wind.

The first Satinalia they spend in the Ferelden wilderness, the two of them bungled through a hundred bread recipes until they found one that tasted like the memories Anders had carried in his heart for nearly thirty years. 

They forgot which one it had been and had to repeat the process the next year, but it was alright. Snow blanketed their small farmhouse and a merry fire blazed in their hearth and the wooden walls were full of the scent of freshly baked bread.


End file.
